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C5C   LIBRIS 


DR.    HOLLAND'S   WORKS. 

Each  in  one  volume  12mo. 
BITTER-SWEET:  a  Poem, $1  50 


50 
50 
75 
75 
75 
75 

MISS  GILBERTS  CAREER, 2  00 

BAY  PATH, 200 

The  first  six  volumes  are  issued  in  cabinet  size  (16mo), 
"Briffhtwood  Edition,"  at  same  prices  as  above. 


KATHRINA:  aPoem, 

LETTERS  TO  YOUNG  PEOPLE, 

GOLD-FOIL,  hammered  from  Popular  Proverbs, 

LESSONS  IN  LIFE, 

PLAIN  TALKS,  on  Familiar  Subjects,  .... 
LETTERS  TO  THE  JONESES, 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


J.    G.    HOLLAND, 

AUTHOR   OF    "BITTER   SWEET,"    "KATHRINA,"    ETC.,    ETC. 


NEW  YORK : 
SCRIBNER,    ARMSTRONG    &    CO 

1872. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1872,  by 

SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG  &  CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


0  ON  TENTS. 

PAGK 

The  Marble  Prophecy.        ....  .1 

The  Wings .    28 

Intimations  \        . 38 

Words 43 

* 

Sleeping  and  Dreaming 44 

On  the  Righi .51 

Gradatim 53 

Returning  Clouds 56 

Eureka 59 

Wliere  Shall  the  Baby's  Dimple  Be?        .        .        .61 

The  Heart  of  the  War 63 

To  a  Sleeping  Singer 69 

Song  and  Silence 70 


7146 


iv  CONTENTS. 

1»AOS 

Alone 72 

Albert  Durer's  Studio 75 

The  Old  Clock  of  Prague 77 

A  Christmas  Carol 82 

Verses  Eead  at  the  Hadley  Centennial     .        .        .84 

Wanted 89 

Merle  the  Counsellor 91 

Daniel  Gray 97 

The  Mountain  Christening 102 

A  Golden  Wedding-Song    ...  .  Ill 


THE   MARBLE   PROPHECY. 

The   harlequins   are   out   in   force   to-day — 
The   piebald     Swiss — and   in   the   vestibule 
Of  great  St.  Peter's  rings  the  rhythmic  tread 
Of  Roman    nobles,    uniformed    and   armed 
As  the  Pope's  Guard  ;  and  while  their  double 

line 

With   faultless  curve  enters   the  open  door, 
And   sways   and    sparkles   up    the   splendid 

nave, 

Between   the   walls   of  humbler   soldiery, 
And   parts  to  pass  the  altar — 'keeping  step 
To    the    proud     beating     of    their    Roman 

hearts— 

A   breeze    of  whispered    admiration   sweeps 
The  crowds   that   gaze,  and  dies  within  the 

dome. 


2  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

St.  Peter's  toe  (the  stump  of  it)  was  cold 
An  hour  ago,  but   waxes   warm   apace 
With  rub  of  handkerchiefs,  and  dainty  touch 
Of  lips   and   foreheads. 


Smug  behind   their  screen 
Sit    the   Pope's   Choir.     No  woman    enters 

there  ; 

For  woman   is   impure,  and   makes   impure 
By  voice   and   presence !    Mary,  mother  of 

God! 
Not    thy    own   sex  may  sing  thee  in   the 

courts 

Of  The  All-Holy ! — Only  man,   pure  man ! 
Doubt   not   the   purity  of  some   of  these — 
Angels   before   their   time — nor   doubt 
That    they    will     sing     like     angels,     when 

Papa, 

Borne  on  the  shoulders  of  his  stalwart  men 
(The   master   rode   an   ass),   and   canopied 
By  golden   tapestries — the   triple   crown 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  3 

Upon  his  brow,  the  nodding  peacock  plumes 
Far  heralding  his  way — shall  come  to  take 
His  incense  and  his  homage. 


I   will  go. 
"Pis    a    brave    pageant,    to    be    seen    just 

once. 
'Tis   a   brave  pageant,    but    one    does   not 

like 

To  smutch  his  trousers  kneeling  to  a  man, 
Or  bide  the  stare  that  follows  if  he  fail; 
So,  having  seen  it  once,  one  needs  not 

wait. 


What   is  the   feast?    Let's  see:   ah!    I   re- 

call: 
St.    Peter's   chair    was    brought    from    An- 

tioch 

So   many  years   ago ; — the   worse   for  wear 
No   doubt,   and   never  quite   luxurious, 


4  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

But   valued   as   a   piece   of  furniture 

By   Rome    above    all    price ;    and    so    they 

give 

High   honor  to   the   anniversary. 
'Tis  well ;    in    Rome    they    make    account 

of  chairs. 

If  less   in   heaven,   it   possibly   may  be 
Because   they're   greatly   occupied    by  joy 
Over   bad   men   made   penitent   and   pure 
By   this   same   chair!     Who   knows? 


Til  to  the  door! 

The   sun  seems  kind  and  simple  in  the  sky 
After    such    pomp.      I    thank    thee,    Sun ! 

Thou  hast 
A     smile    like    God,    that    reaches    to    the 

heart 

Direct    and   sweet,   without   the   ministries 
Of  scene   and   ceremonial !     Thy   rays 
Fall   not   in   benediction     at   the    ends 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  5 

Of  two   pale   fingers ;   but  thy  warmth   and 

light 
Wrap   well   the   cold   dark  world.      I   need 

no   prism 

To  teach  my  soul  that  thou  art  beautiful: 
It  would  divide  thee,  and  confuse  my  sight. 
Shine  freely,  sun !  No  mighty  mother 

church 

Stands   mediator   between   thee   and   me ! 
Ay,  shine   on   these — all   these  in  shivering 

need — 
To  whom   God's   precious   love  is  doled  or 

sold 

By  sacerdotal  hucksters !  Shine  on  these, 
And  teach  them  that  the  God  of  Life 

and   Light 
Dwells    not    alone    in    temples     made    by 

hands  ; 
And    that    the    path   to   Him,   from    every 

soul, 

In  every   farthest   corner   of  the   earth, 
Is   as   direct   as   are   thy  rays   to   thee ! 


6  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

Ha!  Pardon!  Have  I  hurt  you?  Wella- 
day! 

I   was   not   looking   for   a   beggar   here : — 

Indeed,  was   looking   upward !     But    I   see 

You're  here  by  royal  license — with  a  badge 

Made  of  good  brass.  Come  nearer  to  me ! 
there : 

Take  double  alms,  and  give  me  chance  to 
read 

The  number  on  your  breast.  So :  "  Sev 
enty-seven  " ! 

'Tis  a  good  number,  man,  and  quite  at 
home 

About  the  temple.  Well,  you  have  hard 
fare, 

But  many  brothers  and  no  end   of   shows! 

Think  it  not  ill  that  they  will  spend  to 
day, 

Touching  this  chair,  enough  of  time  and 
gold 

To  gorge  the  poor  of  Rome.  The  men 
who  hold 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  J 

The  church  in  charge — who  are,  indeed, 
the  church — 

Have  little  time  to  give  to  starving  men. 
,  Be  thankful  for  your  label !  Only  one 

Can  be  the  beggar  "  Number  seventy- 
seven  " ! 

They  are  distinguished  persons :  so  are  you ! 

You  must  be  patient,  though  it  seems,  I 
grant, 

A   trifle    odd    that   when    a   miracle 

Is  wrought  before   you,    it   will   never  take 

A   useful   turn,    as    in    the    olden    time, 

And  give  you  loaves  and  fishes,  or  in 
crease 

Your  little   dinners ! 


Still  the  expectant  crowds 

Press  up  the  street  from  round  St.  Angelo, 

And  thread  the  circling  colonnade,  or  cross 

With    hurried     steps    the     broad     piazza — 

crowds 


8  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

That  pass  the  portal,  and  at  once  are  lost 
Within  the  vaulted  glooms,  as  morning  mist 
Is  quenched  by  morning  air. 


It  is   God's  house — 

The  noblest  temple  ever  reared  to  Him 
By  hands  of  men — the  culminating  deed 
Of  a  great  church — the  topmost  reach  of 

art 

For  the  enshrinement  of  the  Christian  faith 
In   sign    and   symbol.     Holiness   becomes 
The   temple   of  the    Holy! 


And   these   crowds  ? 
Come    they  to   pour    the   worship  of    their 

hearts 

Like  wine  upon  the  altar?  Who  are  they? 
Last  night,  we  hear,  the  theatre  was  full. 
It  was  a  spectacle:  they  went  to  see. 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  9 

All   yesterday   they  thronged   the   galleries, 
Or   roved    among   the    ruins,    or   drove   out 
Upon    the   broad  campagna — just   to   see. 
This   afternoon,   with   gaudy   equipage, 
(Their   Baedeker   and  Murray  left  at  home), 
They'll  be  upon   the    Pincio — to   see. 
And    so  this   morning,  learning  of  the  chair 
And  the  Pope's  coming,  they  are  here  to  see 
(The    men    in    swallow-tails,    their   wives   in 

black), 

The   grandest   spectacle    of   all   the   week. 
Make   way    ye   men    of  poverty   and   dirt 
Who    fringe    the    outer   lines !     Make  open- 
way 
And  let  them  pass  !     This  is  the  House  of 

God, 
And  swallow-tails  are  of  fine  moment  here! 


The   ceremony  has   begun   within. 

I    hear   the   far,   faint   voices    of  the    choir, 


IO  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

As   if  a   door   in   heaven   were   left   ajar, 
And  cherubim  were  singing  .  .  .  Now  I  hear 
The  sharp,  metallic  chink  of  grounded  arms 
Upon   the   marble,    as    His    Holiness 
Moves   up  the   lines   of  bristling   bayonets 
That   guard   his    progress.  ....  But   I   stay 

alone. 

Nay,    I   will   to   the   Vatican,    and   there, 
In   converse   with   the   thoughts   of  manlier 

men, 

Pass  the  great  morning !     I  shall  be  alone — 
Ay,   all   alone   with   thee,   Laocoon ! 


"A   feast    day    and    no    entrance"?      Can 

one's  gold 

Unloose   a  soul   from   purgatorial   bonds 
And   ope  the  gates  of  heaven,  without  the 

power 
To   draw   a   bolt   at   the    Museum?      Wait! 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  n 

Laocoon !   thou   great   embodiment 
Of  human   life   and   human   history! 
Thou   record   of  the   past,   thou   prophecy 
Of  the   sad   future,   thou   majestic  voice, 
Pealing  along  the   ages   from   old   time ! 
Thou   wail   of  agonized   humanity ! 
There   lives   no   thought    in    marble   like  to 

thee ! 

Thou   hast   no   kindred   in   the   Vatican, 
But   standest   separate   among   the   dreams 
Of  old   mythologies — alone — alone  ! 
The   beautiful   Apollo   at   thy   side 
Is   but  a  marble  dream,  and  dreams  are  all 
The  gods  and  goddesses  and  fauns  and  fates 
That    populate   these   wondrous   halls ;   but 

thou, 

Standing   among  them,   liftest   up   thyself 
In   majesty   of  meaning,    till   they   sink 
Far   from    the   sight,    no   more   significant 
Than   the  poor  toys  of  children.     For  thou 

art 
A   voice   from   out   the   world's   experience, 


12  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

Speaking   of  all   the   generations   past 
To   all  the   generations   yet   to   come 
Of  the  long  struggle,  the   sublime   despair, 
The   wild   and   weary  agony   of  man ! 


Ay,   Adam   and   his   offspring,    in   the    toils 
Of  the   twin    serpents    Sin   and    Suffering, 
Thou    dost   impersonate ;    and   as    I    gaze 
Upon   the   twhiing   monsters   that   enfold 
In    unrelaxing,    unrelenting   coils, 
Thy  awful   energies,    and   plant   their   fangs 
Deep   in  thy  quivering  flesh,  while  still  thy 

might 

In  fierce  convulsion  foils  the  fateful  wrench 
That  would  destroy  thee,  I  am  overwhelmed 
With  a  strange  sympathy  of  kindred 

pain, 

And  see  through  gathering  tears  the  tragedy, 
The  curse  and  conflict  of  a  ruined  race  ! 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  \^ 

Those  Rhodian  sculptors  were  gigantic  men, 
Whose  inspirations  came  from  other  source 
Than  their  religion,  though  they  chose  to 

speak 
Through    its    familiar   language, — men    who 

saw, 

And,  seeing  quite  divinely,  felt  how  weak 
To  cure  the  world's  great  woe  were  all 

the    powers 
Whose    reign   their   age   acknowledged.     So 

they   sat — 
The  immortal  three — and  pondered  long  and 

well 
What   one    great    work    should    speak    the 

truth   for   them, — 

What  one  great  work  should  rise  and  testify 
That  they  had  found  the  topmost  fact  of 

life, 

Above   the   reach   of  all   philosophies 
And    all    religions — every   scheme   of  man 
To   placate    or  dethrone.      That    fact    they 

found, 


!4  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

And   moulded   into   form.     The   silly  priest 
Whose   desecrations   of  the   altar  stirred 
The  vengeance  of  his  God,  and  summoned 

forth 

The  wreathed  gorgons  of  the  slimy  deep 
To  crush  him  and  his  children,  was  the  word 
By  which  they  spoke  to  their  own  age  and 

race, 

That  listened   and  applauded,  knowing  not 
That   high   above   the   small   significance 
They   apprehended,   rose   the   grand    intent 
That  mourned  their  doom   and   breathed  a 

world's  despair ! 


Be   sure   it   was   no   fable   that    inspired 
So  grand  an  utterance.     Perchance  some  leaf 
From  an  old  Hebrew  record  had  conveyed 
A   knowledge   of  the   genesis   of  man. 
Perchance  some  fine  conception  rose  in  them 
Of  unity   of  nature   and   of  race, 


THE  MARBLE  PR  OP  HE  CY.  15 

Springing   from   one   beginning.     Nay,   per 
chance 
Some  vision  flashed  before  their  thoughtful 

eyes 
Inspired  by  God,  which  showed  the  mighty 

man, 

Who,   unbegotten,   had   begot   a   race 
That   to   his   lot  was  linked  through  count 
less   time 

By  living  chains,  from  which  in  vain  it  strove 
To  wrest  its  tortured  limbs  and  leap  amain 
To  freedom  and  to  rest !  It  matters  not : 
The  double  word — the  fable  and  the  fact, 
The  childish  figment  and  the  mighty  truth, 
Are  blent  in  one.  The  first  was  for  a  day 
And  dying  Rome  ;  the  last  for  later  time 
And  all  mankind. 


These  sculptors  spoke  their  word 
And  then  they  died;    and    Rome — imperial 
Rome — 


16  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

The   mistress   of  the   world — debauched   by 

blood 

And  foul  with  harlotries — fell  prone  at  length 
Among  the  trophies  of  her  crimes  and  slept. 
Down  toppling  one  by  one  her  helpless  gods 
Fell  to  the  earth,  and  hid  their  shattered 

forms 

Within  the  dust  that  bore  them,  and  among 
The  ruined  shrines  and  crumbling  masonry 
Of  their  old  temples.  Still  this  wondrous 

group, 

From    its   long   home   upon    the    Esquiline, 
Beheld   the   centuries  of  change,  and  stood, 
Impersonating   in    its   conscious   stone 
The    unavailing   struggle    to    crowd   back 
The   closing   folds  of  doom.      It   paused  to 

hear 
A.   strange   New   Name    proclaimed    -among 

the   streets, 
\nd   catch   the   dying  shrieks   of  martyred 

men, 
And    see    the   light  of   hope   and   heroism 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  if 

Kindling   in   many   eyes;    and   then   it   fell; 
And    in    the   ashes   of   an   empire   swathed 
Its  aching  sense,  and  hid  its  tortured  forms. 


The  old  life  went,  the  new  life   came ;  and 

Rome 

That    slew    the    prophets   built   their  sepul 
chres, 
And   filled   her   heathen    temples   with    the 

shrines 
Of   Christian   saints    whom    she   had   tossed 

to   beasts, 

Or   crucified,   or  left  to  die    in    chains 
Within   her    dungeons.    .Ay,    the    old    life 

went 

But  came  again.  The  primitive,  true  age — 
The  simple,  earnest  age — when  Jesus  Christ 
The  Crucified  was  only  known  and  preached, 
Struck  hands  with  paganism  and  passed 
away. 

2 


!8  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

Rome  built  new  temples  and  installed   new 

names ; 

Set   up    her   graven   images,   and   gave 
To  Pope  and  priests  the  keeping  of  her  gods. 
Again  she  grasped  at  power  no  longer  hers 
By  right  of  Roman-  prowess,  and  stretched 

out 

Her   hand    upon   the   consciences   of  men. 
The   godlike   liberty  with  which  the  Christ 
Had  made  his  people  free  she  stole  from  them, 
And  bound  them  slaves  to  new  observances. 
Her   times,   her   days,   her   ceremonials 
Imposed   a   burden   grievous   to   be   borne, 
And  millions  groaned  beneath  it.     Nay,  she 

grew 

The   vengeful   persecutor   of  the   free 
Who  would  not  bear  her  yoke,  and  bathed 

her   hands 

In  blood  as  sweet  as  ever  burst  from  hearts 
Torn   from  the   bosoms   of  the   early  saints 
Within   her   Coliseum.     She   assumed 
To  be  the   arbiter   of  destiny. 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  •  19 

Those  whom  she  bound  or  loosed  upon  the 
earth, 

Were  bound  or  loosed  in  heaven !  In  God's 
own  place, 

She   sat   as   God — supreme,   infallible ! 

She  shut  the  door  of  knowledge  to  man 
kind, 

And  bound  the  Word  Divine.  She  sucked 
the  juice 

Of  all   prosperities   within   her   realms, 

Until   her   gaudy  temples  blazed  with  gold, 

And  from  a  thousand  altars  flashed  the  fire 

Of  priceless  gems.  To  win  her  countless 
wealth 

She  sold   as   merchandise   the   gift   of  God. 

She  took  the  burden  which  the  cross  had 
borne, 

And  bound  it  fast  to  scourged  and  writh 
ing  loins 

In   thriftless    Penance,   till   her   devotees 

Fled  from  their  kind  to  find  the  boon  of 
peace, 


20  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

And  died  in  banishment.     Beneath  her  sway, 
The  proud  old  Roman  blood  grew  thin  and 

mean 

Till   virtue   was   the   name   it   gave  to  fear, 
Till   heroism   and   brigandage   were   one, 
And   neither   slaves  nor  beggars  knew  their 

shame ! 


What  marvel  that  a  shadow  fell,  world-wide, 
And  brooded  o'er  the  ages  ?  Was  it  strange 
That  in  those  dim  and  drowsy  centuries, 
When  the  dumb  earth  had  ceased  to  quake 

beneath 
The   sounding   wheels   of  progress,  and  the 

life 
That  erst  had  flamed  so  high  had  sunk  so 

low 

In  cold  monastic  glooms  and  forms  as  cold, 
The  buried  gods  should  listen  in  their  sleep 
And  dream  of  resurrection  ?  Was  it  strange 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  21 

That   listening   well   they  should   at   length 

awake, 
And    struggle   from   their  pillows  ?     Was   it 

strange 
That    men   whose    vision    grovelled    should 

perceive 

The  dust  in  motion,  and  with  rapture  greet 
Each    ancient   deity   with   loud   acclaim, 
As   if  he   brought   with   him   the  good   old 

days 

Of  manly   art   and   poetry   and   power? 
Nay,  was  it  strange  that  as  they  raised  them 
selves, 

And  cleaned  their  drowsy  eyelids  of  the  dust, 
And   took   their   godlike   attitudes  again, 
The  grand  old  forms  should  feel  themselves 

at   home — 

Saving  perhaps   a   painful    sense    that   men 
Had  dwindled  somewhat  ?     Was  it  strange, 

at   last, 

That  all  these  gods  should  be  installed  anew, 
And    share   the   palace   with    His    Holiness, 


22  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

And  that  the  Pope  and  Christian  Rome  can 

show 

No  art  that  equals  that  which  had  its  birth 
In   pagan   inspiration  ?    Ah,   wha.t   shame ! 
That   after   two   millenniums   of  Christ, 
Rome  calls  to  her  the  thirsty  tribes  of  earth, 
And  smites  the  heathen  marble  with  her  rod, 
And   bids  them   drink  the  best  she  has  to 

give! 


And  when  the  gods  were  on  their  feet  again 
It   was  thy   time   to   rise,    Laocoon! 
Those  Rhodian  sculptors  had  foreseen  it  all. 
Their  word  was  true :   thou  hadst  the  right 
to   live. 


In  the   quick  sunlight   on   the    Esquiline, 
Where  thou  didst  sleep,  De  Fredis  kept  his 
vines  ; 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  23 

And  long  above  thee  grew  the  grapes  whose 

blood 

Ran   wild   in   Christian    arteries,    and    fed 
The  fire  of  Christian  revels.     Ah  what  fruit 
Sucked  up  the  marrow  of  thy  marble  there  ! 
What   fierce,    mad  dreams   were   those  that 

scared    the  souls 
Of  men  who  drank,  nor  guessed  what  ichor 

stung 

Their  crimson  lips,  and  tingled  in  their  veins ! 
Strange    growths    were    those    that   sprang 

above   thy   sleep : 
Vines   that   were   serpents;   huge   and   ugly 

trunks 

That   took   the   forms   of  human   agony — 
Contorted,    gnarled    and    grim — and    leaves 

that    bore 

The  semblance  of  a  thousand  tortured  hands, 
And    snaky    tendrils    that    entwined    them 
selves 

Around  all  forms  of  life  within  their  reach, 
And   crushed  or   blighted   them ! 


24  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

At   last   the   spade 

Slid   down  to   find  the   secret   of  the  vines, 
And  touched  thee  with  a  thrill  that  startled 

Rome, 

And   swiftly    called   a   shouting   multitude 
To   witness   thy   unveiling. 


Ah  what  joy 

Greeted  the  rising  from  thy  long  repose ! 
And  one,  the  mighty  master  of  his  time, 
The  king  of  Christian  art,  with  strong, 

sad    face 
Looked  on,  and  wondered  with   the   giddy 

crowd, — 
Looked  on  and  learned  (too  late,  alas !   for 

him), 

That   his   humanity  and    God's   own    truth 
Were  more  than  Christian  Rome,  and  spoke 

in   words 

Of  larger   import.     Humbled  Angelo 
Bowed    to   the   masters   of  the    early    days, 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  2$ 

Grasped     their     strong     hands     across     the 

centuries, 
And  went   his   way   despairing! 


Thou,   meantime, 

Dids't  find  thyself  installed  among  the  gods 
Here   in   the   Vatican;   and   thou,   to-day, 
Hast  the  same  word  for  those  who  read  thee 

well 
As   when   thou    wast    created.      Rome    has 

failed : 

Humanity   is   writhing   in    the    toils 
Of  the  old    monsters    as  it  writhed  of  old, 
And  there  is  neither  help  nor  hope  in  her. 
Her     priests,    her     shrines,    her     rites,    her 

mummeries, 

Her  pictures  and  her  pageants,  are  as  weak 
To   break   the  hold    of  Sin   and    Suffering 
As    those    her    reign    displaced.     Her   iron 

hand 


26  THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY. 

Shrivels  the  manhood  it  presumes  to  bless, 

Drives   to  disgust    or   infidelity 

The  strong  and  free  who  dare  to  think  and 

judge, 

And  wins   a  kiss   from   coward   lips   alone. 
She  does  not  preach  the  Gospel  to  the  poor, 
But   takes   it   from   their  hands.     The   men 

who  tread 

The  footsteps  of  the  Master,  and  bow  down 
Alone   to    Him,    she   brands   as   heretics 
Or  hunts  as  fiends.     She  drives  beyond  her 

gates 

The  Christian  worshippers  of  other  climes, 
And  other  folds  and  faiths,  as  if  their  brows 
Were  white  with  leprosy,  and  grants  them 

there 

With  haughty  scorn  the  privilege  to  kneel 
In  humble  worship  of  the  common  Lord ! 


Is  this  the  Christ,  or  look  we  still  for  Him  ? 
Is   the    old   problem    solved,   or   lingers   yet 


THE  MARBLE  PROPHECY.  2/ 

The   grand   solution  ?     Ay   Laocoon ! 

Thy  word  is  true,  for   Christian  Rome  has 

failed, 

And    I   behold   humanity   in    thee 
As   those   who    shaped    thee   saw   it,  when 

old   Rome 
In   that   far  pagan   evening   fell   asleep. 


THE    WINGS. 

A   feeble   wail   was   heard   at   night, 

And   a   stifled    cry   of  joy; 
And   when    the   morn  broke  cool  and  light, 
They   bore   to   the   mother's   tearful   sight 

A   fair   and   lovely   boy. 


Months    passed   away ; 
And   day  by   day 

The   mother  hung   about   her   child 
As  in   his   little   cot   he   lay, 

And   watched   him    as   he   smiled, 
And   threw   his   hands   into   the   air, 

And  turned  above  his  large,  bright  eyes, 
With   an    expression    half  of  prayer 
And   half  of  strange   surprise ; 

For   hovering   o'er   his  downy   head 


THE     WINGS.  29 

A   dainty  vision    hung. 

Fluttering,   swaying, 
Unsteadily   it   swung, 

As   if  suspended   by   a  thread, 

His   own    sweet   breath   obeying. 


Sometimes   with   look  of  wild  beseeching 

He   marked   it    as  it    dropped 
Almost   within   his   awkward   reaching, 
And   as  the  vision   stopped 
Beyond    his   anxious   grasp, 
And   cheated   the   quick   clasp 
Of  dimpled    hands,    and    quite 
Smothered  his  chirrup    of    delight, 
And   he    saw   his   effort   vain 
And  the   bright  vision   there   again 
Dancing  before   his  sight, 

His    eyes   grew   dim  with   tears, 
Till    o'er   the   flooded    spheres 
The    soothing  eye-lids   crept, 
And    the   tired    infant  slept. 


30  THE    WINGS. 

He   saw — his   mother    could    not   see — 
A   presence    and    a   mystery : 

Two   waving   wings, 
Spangled   with    silver,    starlike    things: 

No  form    of  light   was  borne  between  ; 
Only    the   wings   were   seen! 

Years  steal   away  with   silent   feet, 

And   he,    the    little    one, 
With  brow  more  fair  and  voice  more  sweet 

Is    playing   in    the    sun. 
Flowers  are  around   him  and  the  songs 

Of   bounding    streams    and    happy    birds, 
But    sweeter    than    their    sweetest    tongues 
Break   forth    his   own    glad   words. 
And   as   he   sings 
The   wings,   the   wings ! 
Before   him    still   they   fly ! 
And   nothing   that   the   summer   brings 

Can   so    entice   his   eye. 
Hovering  here,   hovering   there, 
Hovering   everywhere, 


THE     WINGS.  31 

They  flash   and   shine    among    the   flowers, 
While   dripping   sheen   in   golden   showers 
Falls   through   the   air   where'er  they  hover 
Upon  the  radiant  things  they  cover. 
Hurrying   here,   hurrying  there, 

Hurrying    everywhere, 
He   plucks   the   flowers   they   shine   upon, 
But   while   he   plucks   their   light   is   gone! 
And   casting   down   the   faded    things, 
Onward   he   springs 
To   follow   the   wings ! 


Years   run   away   with    silent   feet ; 

The   boy,   to    manhood    grown, 
Within   a   shadowy    retreat 

Stands   anxious    and    alone. 
His    bosom    heaves   with    heavy   sighs, 

His   hair   hangs   damp    and    long, 
But    fiery   purpose   fills   his    eyes, 

And   his   limbs    are    large    and    strong: 
And    there    above    a    gentle    hill, 


32  THE     WINGS. 

The   wings   are    hovering    still, 

While  their  soft  radiance,  rich  and  warm, 

Falls    on    a   maiden's   form. 


And    see !    again    he   starts, 

And    onward    darts, 
Then  pauses  with  a  fierce  and  sudden  pain, 

Then    presses   on    again, 
Till  with   mixed   thoughts    of   rapture    and 

despair, 
He    kneels    before   her   there: — 

With   hands    together   prest, 
He  prays  to  her  with  low  and  passionate  calls, 
And,  like  a  snow-flake  pure,  she  flutters,  falls, 

And    melts    upon   his   breast. 


Long   in    that    dearest   trance    he   hung — 
Then  raised  his  eyes;  the  wings  that  swung 
In    glancing   circles    round    his    head 


THE    WINGS.  33 

Afar   had    fled, 
And  wheeled,  with  calm  and  graceful  flight, 

Over   a    scene 
That  glowed  with  glories  beauteously  bright 

Beneath   their   sheen. 


High  in  the  midst  a  monument  arose, 
Of  pale  enduring  marble ;  calm  and  still, 

It  seemed  a  statue  of  sublime  repose, 
The  silent  speaker  of  a  mighty  will. 


Its   sides   were   hung    around 
With   boughs   of    evergreen  ;    and   its  long 

shaft   was   crowned 
With    a    bright   laurel-wreath, 
And   glittering   beneath 
Were  piled  great   heaps   of  gold   upon   the 

ground. 
Children   were   playing   near— fair  boys  and 

girls, 
3 


34  THE     WINGS. 

Who   shook    their    sunny   curls, 
And    laughed   and   sang   in   mirthfulness   of 

spirit, 

And    in    their   childish    pleasures 
Danced    around    the    treasures 
Of    gold    and    honor     they    were     to     in 
herit. 


The    sight    has   fired   his   brain; 
Onward    he    springs    again. 

O'er   ruined    blocks 
Of  wild    and    perilous    rocks, 
Through    long    damp    caves,     o'er    pitfalls 

dire, 

And  maddening    scenes   of   blood    and    fire, 
Fainting   with   heat, 
Benumbed   with    cold, 
With   weary,    aching   feet, 
He     sternly     toils,     and     presses     on    to 

greet 
The  monument,   the  laurels   and   the  gold. 


THE    WINGS.  .  35 

Years  have  passed  by ;  a  shattered  form 
Leans    faintly    on    a    monument ; 
His    glazing    eyes    are    bent 
In  sadness  down :  a  tear  falls  to  the  ground 
That  through  the  furrows  of  his  cheek  hath 

wound. 

The  children  beautiful  have  ceased  to  play,( 
Tarnished    the    marble    stands   with    dark 

decay, 

The  laurels  all  are  dead,  and  flown  the  gold 
away 


Once    more    he    raised    his    eyes;   before 

him   lay 

A   dim   and   lonely   vale, 
And    feebly   tottering    in    the  downward 

way 

Walked    spectres    cold    and    pale. 
And   darkling    groves    of    shadowy   cypress 
sprung 


36  THE    WINGS. 

Among  the  damp  clouds  that  around  them 

hung. 
One  vision  only  cheers  his  aching  sight ; 

Those   wings   of  light 
Have  lost  their  varied  hues,  and  changed  to 

white, 
And,  with  a  gentle  motion,  slowly  wave 

Over   a   new   made   grave. 
He  casts  one  faltering,  farewell  look  behind, 
Around,    above,    one    mournful     glance    he 

throws, 
Then   with   a  cheerful    smile,   and    trusting 

mind, 

Moves  feebly  toward  the  valley  of  repose. 
He  stands  above  the  grave ;  dull  shudders 

creep 

Along  his  limbs,  cold  drops  are  on  his  brow ; 
One  sigh  he  heaves,  and  sinking  into  sleep 
He  drops  and  disappears ; — and  dropping 

now, 

The   wings   have   followed   too. 
But,  lo  !  new  visions  burst  upon  the  view ! 


THE    WINGS.  37 

They  reappear  in  glory  bright  and   new! 
And  to  their  sweet  embrace  a  soul  is  given, 
And  on  the  wings  of  HOPE  an  angel  flies 
to  HEAVEN. 


INTIMATIONS. 

WHAT   glory   then  !     What   darkness   now ! 

A  glimpse,   a  thrill,   and  it  is  flown ! 

I   reach,   I   grasp,   but   stand  alone, 
With  empty  arms  and  upward  brow ! 


Ye  may  not   see,   O  weary  eyes ! 

The  band  of  angels,   swift  and  bright, 
That  pass,   but   cannot   wake   your  sight, 

Down    trooping   from  the   crowded   skies. 


O   heavy   ears !     Ye   may  not   hear 

The  strains    that  pass  my  conscious  soul, 
And   seek,    but    find   no   earthly   goal, 

Far   falling  from  another   sphere. 


INTIMA  TIONS.  39 

Ah  !   soul   of  mine !     Ah !    soul  of  mine ! 
Thy   sluggish   senses   are  but   bars 
That  stand   between   thee   and   the  stars, 

And   shut   thee   from   the   world   divine. 


For   something   sweeter   far   than   sound, 
And   something   finer   than   the   light 
Comes  through  the  discord  and  the  night 

And   penetrates,   or  wraps   thee   round. 


Nay,    God   is   here,   couldst    thou   but   see ; 

All   things   of  beauty   are   of  Him ; 

And  heaven,    that   holds   the   cherubim, 
As   lovingly   embraces   thee ! 


If  thou    hast   apprehended   well 

The   tender  glory   of  a   flower, 

Which  moved  thee,  by  some  subtle  power 
Whose  source  and  sway  thou  couldst  not  tell ; 


40  INTIMA  TIONS. 

If  thou    hast   kindled    to    the   sweep 
Of  stormy   clouds   across   the    sky, 
Or   gazed   with   tranced   and   tearful   eye, 

And   swelling   breast,    upon    the   deep; 


If  thou    hast   felt  the   throb   and   thrill 
Of  early  day   and   happy   birds, 
While   peace,    that    drowned    thy   chosen 
words 

Has   flowed   from    thee.  in   glad   good-will, 


Then   hast   thou    drunk  the  heavenly  dew ; 
Then    have   thy   feet    in    rapture   trod 
The   pathway   of  a   thought    of  God  ; 

And   death   can   show  thee  nothing   new. 


For   heaven   and   beauty   are   the   same, — 
Of  God    the   all-informing   thought, 
To   sweet,    supreme    expression   wrought, 

And  syllabled  by  sound  and  flame. 


INTIMATIONS.  41 

The  light  that  beams  from  childhood's  eyes, 
The  charm  that  dwells  in  summer  woods, 
The   holy   influence   that   broods 
O'er   all   things   under   twilight   skies, — 


The   music   of  the   simple   notes 

That   rise   from   happy   human   homes, 
The  joy   in   life   of  all   that   roams 

Upon   the    earth,   and   all   that   floats, 

Proclaim   that   heaven's   sweet   providence 
Enwraps   the   homely   earth   in   whole, 
And   finds   the    secret   of  the   soul 

Through   channels   subtler    than   the   sense. 

O  soul  of  mine!  Throw  wide  thy  door, 
And  cleanse  thy  paths  from  doubt  and  sin  ; 
And  the  bright  flood  shall  enter  in 

And   give   thee   heaven   forevermore ! 


WORDS. 

The  robin  repeats  his  two  musical  words, 
The  meadow-lark  whistles  his  one  refrain ; 
And  steadily,  over  and  over  again, 

The  same  song  swells  from  a  hundred  birds. 

Bobolink,    chickadee,   blackbird   and  jay, 
Thrasher     and    woodpecker,    cuckoo    and 

wren, 
Each  sings  its  word,  or  its  phrase,  and  then 

It   has   nothing  further   to   sing   or   to  say. 

Into  that  word,  or  that  sweet  little  phrase, 
All  there  may  be  of  its  life  must  crowd ; 
And  lulling  and  liquid,  or  hoarse  and  loud, 

It  breathes  out  its  burden  of  joy  and  praise. 


WORDS.   '  43 

A   little   child    sits   in   his    father's   door, 
Chatting  and  singing  with  careless  tongue  ; 
A    thousand   beautiful   words    are    sung, 

And  he   holds   unu'.tered  a  thousand    more. 

Words   measure   power ;   and   they  measure 

thine  ; 

Greater  art  thou  in   thy  prattling  moods 
Than   all   the   singers   of  all   the   woods ; 

They  are  brutes  only,  but  thou  art  divine. 

Words   measure  destiny.      Power  to  declare 
Infinite   ranges    of  passion    and    thought 
Holds    with    the    infinite    only   its    lot, — 

Is    of   eternity    only    the    heir. 

Words  measure  life,  and  they  measure  its  joy ! 
Thou  hast  more  joy  in  thy  childish  years 
Than  the  birds  of  a  hundred  tuneful 
spheres, 

So— sing  with  the  beautiful  birds,  my  boy ! 


SLEEPING    AND    DREAMING. 

I    softly   sink   into   the   bath    of  sleep : 
With  eyelids  shut,  I  see   around  me  close 

The   mottled,  violet  vapors    of   the  deep, 
That   wraps    me   in   repose. 


I   float  all  night   in   the   ethereal  sea 

That   drowns    my   pain   and   weariness   in 
balm, 

Careless    of   where    its    currents    carry   me, 
Or   settle   into    calm. 


That  which   the    ear   can   hear  is  silent  all ; 

But,  in  the  lower  stillness  which  I  reach, 
Soft   whispers  call    me,  like  the  distant    fall 

Of   waves    upon    the    beach. 


SLEEPING  AND  DREAMING.  45 

Now  like  the  mother  who  with  patient  care 
Has  soothed  to  rest  her  faint,  o'erwearied 
boy, 

My  spirit  leaves  the  couch,  and  seeks  the  air 
For  freedom  and  for  joy. 


Drunk  up  like  vapors  by  the  morning  sun 
The  past  and  future  rise  and  disappear; 

And  times  and  spaces  gather  home,  and  run 
Into  a  common  sphere. 


My  youth  is  round  me,  and  the  silent  tomb 
Has  burst  to  set  its  fairest  prisoner  free, 

And    I    await    her   in    the    dewy   gloom 
Of  the    old    trysting   tree. 


I    mark    the    flutter    of   her    snowy    dress, 
I    hear   the    tripping    of  her    fairy    feet, 

And  now,  pressed   closely  in  a  pure    caress, 
With   ardent  joy  we   meet. 


4  6  SLEEPING  AND  DREAMING. 

I    tell   again    the    story   of  my   love, 
I    drink   again   her   lip's   delicious   wine, 

And,  while   the   same   old   stars  look  down 

above, 
Her  eyes  look   up   to   mine. 


I     dream    that     I     am     dreaming,    and     I 

start  ; 
Then   dream   that   nought   so   real  comes 

in    dreams ; 

Then   kiss  again   to   reassure   my  heart 
That   she   is   what   she   seems. 


Our   steps   tend    homeward.      Lingering  at 

the  gate, 
I   breathe,   and    breathe    again,   my   fond 

good   night. 
She    shuts     the     cruel     door,    and     still    I 

wait 
To    watch    her    window-light. 


SLEEPING  AND  DREAMING.  47 

I    see    the    shadow    o'    her   dainty    head, 
On    curtains    that   I  pray  her  hand   may 

stir, 
Till    all    is    dark  ;     and    then    I    seek     my 

bed 
To    dream    I   dream    of  her. 


Like  the  swift  moon  that  slides  from  cloud 

to   cloud, 

With  only  hurried  space  to  smile  between, 
I    pierce    the    phantoms    that    around    me 

crowd, 
And    glide    from    scene    to    scene. 

I  clasp  warm  hands  that  long  have  lain  in 

dust, 
I  hear  sweet  voices  that  have  long  been 

still, 
And  earth  and  sea  give    up    their   hallowed 

trust 
In    answer    to    my   will. 


48  SLEEPING  AND  DREAMING. 

And   now,   high-gazing    toward    the    starry 

dome, 
I    see     three    airy    forms    come     floating 

down — 

The    long-lost    angels    of  my  early  home — 
My   night   of  joy   to   crown. 

They     pause     above,     beyond     my     eager 

reach, 

With  arms  enwreathed  and  forms  of  heav 
enly   grace ; 
And  smiling  back  the  love  that  smiles  from 

each, 
I   see   them,    face    to    face. 

They  breathe  no   language,  but   their  holy 

eyes 

Beam  an  embodied  blessing  on  my  heart, 
That     warm     within     my    trustful     bosom 

lies, 
And   never   will   depart. 


SLEEPING  AND  DREAMING.  49 

I  drink  the  effluence,  till  through  all  my  soul 
I  feel  a  flood  of  peaceful  rapture  flow, 

That  swells  to  joy  at  last,  and  bursts  control, 
And  I  awake ;  but  lo ! 

With  eyelids  shut,  I  hold  the  vision  fast, 
And  still  detain  it  by  my  ardent  prayer, 

Till  faint  and  fainter  grown,  it  fades  at  last 
Into  the  silent  air. 

My  God !  I  thank  Thee  for  the  bath  of  sleep, 
That  wraps  in  balm  my  weary  heart  and 
brain, 

And  drowns  within  its  waters  still  and  deep 
My  sorrow  and  my  pain. 

I   thank   Thee  for  my  dreams,  which  loose 

the   bond 

That   binds   my   spirit   to   its   daily    load, 
And    give    it   angel   wings,    to   fly   beyond 

Its    slumber-bound    abode. 
4 


t;o  SLEEPING  AND  DREAMING. 

I  thank  Thee  for  these  glimpses  of  the  clime 
That  lies  beyond  the  boundaries  of  sense, 

Where  I  shall  wash  away  the  stains  of  time 
In  floods  of  recompense: — 

Where,  when  this  body  sleeps  to  wake  no 
more, 

My  soul  shall  rise  to  everlasting  dreams, 
And  find  unreal  all  it  saw  before 

And    real   all   that   seems. 


ON  THE  RIG  HI. 

ON  the  Righi  Kulm  we  stood, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I, 
While  the  morning's  crimson  flood 

Streamed  along  the  eastern  sky. 
Reddened  every  mountain  peak 

Into  rose,  from  twilight  dun ; 
But  the  blush  upon  her  cheek 

Was  not  lighted  by  the  sun1 


On  the  Righi  Kulm  we  sat, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I, 
Plucking  blue-bells  for  her  hat 

From  a  mound  that  blossomed  nigh. 
"  We  are  near  to  heaven,"  she  sighed, 

While  her  raven  lashes  fell. 
"  Nearer,"  softly  I  replied, 

"  Than  the  mountain's  height  may  tell." 


£2  ON  THE  RIGHT. 

Down  the  Righi's  side  we  sped, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I, 
But  her  morning  blush  had  fled, 

And  the  blue-bells  all  were  dry. 
Of  the  height  the  dream  was  born ; 

Of  the  lower  air  it  died  ; 
And  the  passion  of  the  morn 

Flagged  and  fell  at  eventide. 

From  the  breast  of  blue  Lucerne, 

Lovely  Floribel  and  I 
Saw  the  brand  of  sunset  burn 

On  the  Righi  Kulm,  and  die. 
And  we  wondered,  gazing  thus, 

If  our  dream  would  still  remain 
On  the  height,  and  wait  for  us 

Till  we  climb  to  heaven  again  ! 


GRADA  TIM. 

HEAVEN  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound  , 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by 
round. 


I    count   this   thing   to   be   grandly   true: 
That  a  noble  deed  is  a  step  toward  God, — 
Lifting   the    soul   from   the  common  clod 

To  a  purer  air   and  a  broader   view. 


We  rise  by  the  things  that  are  under  feet ; 
By  what  we  have   mastered  of  good   and 

gain; 

By  the  pride  deposed  and  the  passion  slain, 
And    the   vanquished    ills    that   we    hourly 
meet. 


54  GRADA  TIM. 

We  hope,  we  aspire,  we  resolve,  we  trust, 
When   the   morning   calls    us  to  life   and 

light, 
But  our  hearts  grow  weary,  and,  ere  the 

night, 
Our  lives  are  trailing  the  sordid  dust. 


We  hope,  we  resolve,  we  aspire,  we  pray, 
And  we  think   that  we  mo  mt  the  air  on 

wings 

Beyond  the  recall  of  sensual  things, 
While    our    feet    still    cling    to    the    heavy 
clay. 


Wings  for  the  angels,  but  feet  for  men  ! 
We   may  borrow    the   wings   to   find   the 

way — 
We  may  hope,  and  resolve,  and  aspire,  and 

pray; 
But  our  feet  must  rise,  or  we  fall  again. 


GRADATIM.  55 

Only   in   dreams   is   a  ladder   thrown 

From    the   weary    earth    to    the    sapphire 

walls ; 
But   the    dreams    depart,   and   the   vision 

falls, 
And  the  sleeper  wakes  on  his  pillow  of  stone. 


Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound  ; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And   we   mount    to   its   summit,   round    by 
round. 


RETURNING    CLOUDS. 

THE  clouds  are  returning  after  the  rain. 
All  the  long  morning  they  steadily  sweep 
From  the  blue  Northwest,  o'er  the  upper 

main, 
In  a  peaceful  flight  to  their  Eastern  sleep. 


With  sails  that  the  cool  wind  fills  or  furls, 
And    shadows    that    darken    the   billowy 
grass, 

Freighted  with  amber  or  piled  with  pearls, 
Fleets  of  fair  argosies  rise  and  pass. 


The  earth  smiles  back  to  the  smiling  throng 
From  greening  pasture  and  blooming  field, 


RETURNING  CLOUDS.  57 

For  the  earth  that  had  sickened  with  thirst 

so  long 

Has   been   touched   by  the   hand   of  The 
Rain,  and  healed. 


The  old  man  sits  'neath  the  tall  elm  trees, 
And   watches   the   pageant   with    dreamy 

eyes, 
While  his  white  locks  stir  to    the  same  cool 

breeze 
That  scatters  the  silver  along  the  skies. 


The  old  man's  eyelids  are  wet  with  tears — 
Tears     of     sweet    pleasure    and     sweeter 

pain — 
For  his  thoughts  are  driving  back  over  the 

years 
In   beautiful   clouds   after  life's  long  rain. 


58  RETURNING  CLOUDS. 

Sorrows  that  drowned  all  the  springs  of  his 

life, 
Trials     that    crushed    him     with    pitiless 

beat, 
Storms     of    temptation     and     tempests     of 

strife, 
Float  o'er  his  memory  tranquil  and  sweet. 


And   the   old   man's   spirit,   made   soft    and 

bright 
By  the  long,  long  rain  that  had  bent  him 

low, 

Sees  a  vision  of  angels  on  wings  of  white, 
In  the  trooping  clouds  as  they  come  and 


EUREKA. 

WHOM    I    crown   with   love   is   royal; 

Matters   not   her  blood    or   birth ; 
She    is   queen,    and    I    am   loyal 

To   the   noblest   of  the   earth. 


Neither  place,   nor   wealth,    nor   title, 
Lacks   the   man   my   friendship  owns; 

His   distinction,    true   and   vital, 

Shines   supreme  o'er  crowns  and  thrones. 


Where   true   love   bestows   its   sweetness, 
Where   true   friendship   lays   its   hand, 

Dwells   all   greatness,   all   completeness, 
All   the   wealth    of  every   land. 


60  EUREKA. 

Man  is  greater  than  condition, 
And  where  man  himself  bestows, 

He  begets,  and  gives  position 
To  the  gentlest  that  he  knows. 


Neither  miracle   nor   fable 

Is   the  water   changed    to   wine ; 

Lords   and   ladies   at   my   table 

Prove   Love's   simplest   fare   divine. 


And   if  these   accept   my   duty, 
If  the   loved    my   homage    own, 

I    have   won   all    worth    and   beauty; 
I   have   found   the   magic  stone. 


WHERE    SHALL    THE    BABY'S 
DIMPLE  BE? 

OVER  the   cradle   the   mother  hung, 
Softly  crooning  a   slumber-song ; 

And  these  were  the  simple  words  she  sung 
All   the   evening  long: 

"  Cheek  or   chin,    or   knuckle   or   knee, 
Where    shall   the   baby's   dimple   be? 
Where   shall   the   angel's  finger   rest 
When   he   comes  down  to  the  baby's  nest  ? 
Where   shall   the   angel's  touch    remain 
When   he   awakens   my   babe   again  ? " 

Still   as   she  bent   and   sang   so  low, 
A   murmur   into   her   music   broke; 

And  she  paused  to  hear,  for  she  could  but 

know 
The   baby's   angel   spoke. 


62      WHERE  SHALL  BASTS  DIMPLE  BE? 

"  Cheek   or   chin,    or  knuckle   or   knee, 
Where   shall   the   baby's   dimple   be  ? 
Where    shall   my   ringer   fall   and    rest 
When    I    come   down   to   the   baby's  nest  ? 
Where   shall   my   finger's   touch   remain 
When    I    awaken   your  babe  again  ?  " 


Silent   the   mother  sat,   and   dwelt 
Long   in   the   sweet    delay   of  choice ; 

And   then   by   her   baby's   side   she   knelt, 
And   sang  with   pleasant   voice : 


"  Not   on   the   limb,   O   angel   dear ! 
For  the  charm  with  its  youth  will  disappear ; 
Not   on   the  cheek   shall   the   dimple  be, 
For  the  harboring  smile  will  fade  and  flee; 
But   touch    thou   the   chin   with  an  impress 

deep, 
And  my  baby  the  angel's  seal  shall  keep." 


THE  HEART  OF  THE    WAR. 
(1864.) 

PEACE   in   the   clover-scented   air, 

And   stars   within    the   dome ; 
And    underneath,    in   dim    repose, 

A   plain,    New    England   home. 
Within,    a   murmur  of  low   tones 

And   sighs   from   hearts   oppressed, 
Merging   in  prayer,   at  last,   that   brings 

The   balm   of  silent   rest. 


I've   closed   a  hard   day's   work,  Marty, — 

The   evening   chores   are   done ; 
And   you    are   weary  with   the   house, 

And   with   the   little   one. 
But   he   is   sleeping   sweetly   now, 

With   all  our  pretty  brood ; 
So    come    and    sit   upon    my  knee, 

And    it   will   do    me    good. 


64  THE  HEART  OF  THE  WAR. 

Oh,   Marty !    I   must   tell  you   all 

The   trouble  in   my  heart, 
And   you   must   do  the   best   you   can 

To   take   and   bear  your  part. 
You've   seen   the   shadow   on   my   face ; 

You've   felt   it  day  and   night ; 
For   it   has  filled   our   little   home, 

And   banished    all   its  light. 


I   did   not  mean   it   should   be   so, 

And  yet   I   might   have   known 
That  hearts  which  live  as  close  as  ours 

Can   never  keep   their   own. 
But   we   are   fallen   on   evil   times, 

And,  do  whate'er  I   may, 
My   heart   grows   sad    about   the   war, 

And   sadder   every   day. 


I  think   about   it   when    I   work, 
And   when    I    try   to   rest, 


THE  HEART  OF   THE   WAR,  65 

And    never   more    than   when   your   head 

Is  pillowed  on  my  breast ; 
For  then  I  see  the  camp-fires  blaze, 

And  sleeping  men  around, 
Who  turn  their  faces  toward  their  homes, 

And   dream   upon   the   ground. 


I   think   about   the   dear,   brave   boys, 

My   mates    in   other   years, 
Who   pine    for   home   and   those  they   love, 

Till    I    am    choked   with   tears. 
With  shouts  and  cheers  they  marched  away 

On   glory's   shining   track, 
But,   Ah !    how   long,  how   long   they   stay ! 

How   few   of  them   come   back ! 


One    sleeps   beside   the   Tennessee, 

And    one   beside  the    James, 
And   one    fought    on   a   gallant   ship 

And  perished   in   its   flames. 
5 


66  THE  HEART  OF   THE  WAR. 

And   some,  struck   down   by   fell   disease, 
Are   breathing  out   their   life; 

And    others,    maimed   by   cruel   wounds, 
Have   left   the   deadly   strife. 

Ah,    Marty !    Marty,  only   think 

Of  all   the    boys   have   done 
And  suffered   in   this   weary   war! 

Brave    heroes,    every   one ! 
Oh !    often,    often   in   the   night, 

I   hear   their   voices    call: 
"  Come  on  and  help   us.     Is  it  right 

That  we  sliould  bear   it  all?" 

And   when    I    kneel   and   try   to   pray, 

My  thoughts   are   never   free, 
But   cling   to  those   who   toil   and   fight 

And   die   for   you    and    me. 
And   when    I    pray   for   victory, 

It   seems   almost   a   sin 
To   fold   my   hands   and   ask   for   what 

I   will    not   help   to   win. 


THE  HEART  OF   THE   WAR.  67 

Oh !    do   not   cling   to   me   and   cry, 

For  it   will   break   my   heart ; 
I'm   sure  you'd   rather  have   me   die 

Than   not   to   bear   my   part. 
You  think  that  some  should  stay  at  home 

To   care   for  those   away ; 
But   still    I'm   helpless   to   decide 

If  I  should   go   or   stay. 

For,    Marty,   all   the   soldiers   love, 

And   all   are   loved   again ; 
And   I   am   loved,   and   love,   perhaps, 

No   more   than   other   men. 
I   cannot   tell — I    do   not   know — 

Which   way   my   duty   lies, 
Or  where   the   Lord   would  have    me   build 

My   fire   of  sacrifice. 


I     feel — I   know — I   am   not   mean ; 

And,   though    I   seem   to   boast, 
I'm   sure   that   I   would   give   my   life 

To   those   who   need   it   most. 


68  THE  HEART  OF   THE   WAR. 

Perhaps   the   Spirit   will   reveal 
That   which    is   fair   and    right ; 

So,    Marty,   let    us   humbly   kneel 
And   pray   to    Heaven   for  light. 


Peace   in   the   clover-scented   air, 

And   stars   within    the   dome ; 
And   underneath,    in   dim   repose, 

A   plain,   New    England   home. 
Within,   a   widow   in   her   weeds, 

From   whom   all  joy   is   flown, 
Who   kneels   among   her   sleeping   babes, 

And   weeps   and   prays   alone ! 


TO  A   SLEEPING  SINGER. 

LOVE  in  her  heart,  and  song  upon  her  lip — 

A   daughter,   friend,   and   wife — 

She   lived    a   beauteous   life, 

And    love  and    song  shall   bless   her  in   her 

sleep. 

The  flowers  whose  language  she  interpreted, 
The  delicate  airs,  calm  eves,  and  starry  skies 
That   touched   so   sweetly   her   chaste   sym 
pathies, 

And   all   the   grieving   souls  she  comforted, 
Will    bathe   in   separate    sorrows    the    dear 

mound, 

Where   heart  and   harp   lie   silent  and   pro 
found. 

Oh,  Woman  !    all  the  songs  thou  left  to  us 
We  will  preserve  for  thee,  in  grateful  love ; 
Give   thou    return   of  our   affection    thus, 
And    keep   for   us   the    songs    thou    sing'st 
above ! 


SONG  AND   SILENCE. 

"  MY   Mabel,   you   once  had   a  bird 
In   your   throat;    and   it  sang  all  the  day! 
But   now   it   sings   never   a  word: 
Has  the  bird   flown   away? 


"  Oh   sing   to   me,    Mabel,   again ! 

Strike   the   chords !      Let   the   old    fountain 

flow 

With   its   balm   for   my   fever   and   pain, 
As   it   did   years   ago  ! " 


Mabel  sighed   (while  a  tear  filled  and   fell,) 
"  I   have   bade   all   my   singing  adieu  ; 
But   I've   a  true   story  to   tell, 
And   I'll   tell  it  to  you. 


SONG  AND  SILENCE.  ji 

"  There's   a    bird's    nest    up    there    in    the 

oak, 

On  the  bough  that  hangs   over  the  stream, 
And   last   night   the   mother-bird   broke 
Into   song   in   her   dream. 


"  This   morning   she   woke,   and  was   still ; 
For   she   thought   of  the    frail   little   things 
That    needed   her   motherly   bill, 
Waiting   under   her  wings. 


"And    busily,    all   the    day   long, 
She   hunted    and    carried    their   food, 
And   forgot    both   herself  and   her   song 
In   her   care   for   her   brood. 

"  I    sang   in    my   dream,    and   you    heard  ; 
I   woke,    and   you    wonder   I'm   still ; 
But   a   mother   is   always   a   bird 
With   a   fly   in   its   bill!" 


ALONE! 

ALL  alone  in  the  world !    all  alone ! 
With  a   child   on  my  knee,   or   a  wife    on 

my  breast, 

Or,   sitting   beside   me,  the   beautiful   guest 
Whom  my  her  rt  leaps  to  greet  as  its  sweet 
est   and   best, 
Still   alone   in   the  world !   all   alone ! 


With   my  visions   of  beauty,   alone  ! 
Too    fair  to   be    painted,   too    fleet    to    be 

scanned, 

Too   regal  to  stay  at  my  feeble  command, 
They  pass   from  the  grasp  of  my  impotent 

hand : 
Still  alone   in   the   world !    all  alone ! 


ALONE!  73 

Alone   with   my   conscience,  alone  ! 
Not   an   eye   that   can   see   when   its   finger 

of  flame 
Points   my  soul   to   its   sin,  or  consumes  it 

with   shame  ! 
Not   an  ear  that   can   hear  its  low  whisper 

of  blame  ! 
Still   alone   in   the   world !    all   alone ! 


In   my   visions   of  self,    all   alone ! 
The  weakness,  the   meanness,  the  guilt  that 

I    see, 

The  fool  or  the  fiend  I  am  tempted  to  be, 
Can  only   be    seen   and   repented   by   me : 

Still   alone   in   the   world !    all   alone ! 


Alone   in  my  worship,   alone ! 
No  hand  in  the  universe,  joining  with  mine, 
Can    lift   what   it   lays   on  the   altar   divine, 
Or   bear  what   it   offers  aloft  to  its  shrine : 

Still   alone    in   the   world  !    all   alone ! 


74  ALONE! 

In   the   valley   of  death,   all   alone ! 
The  sighs    and  the  tears  of  my  friends  are 

in   vain, 
For  mine   is   the  passage,  and   mine  is  the 

pain, 
And  mine   the   sad   sinking  of   bosom   and 

brain  : 
Still   alone   in   the  world !    all   alone ! 

Not  alone !    never,   never  alone ! 
There   is  one  who  is  with  me  by  day  and 

by   night, 
Who   sees   and    inspires,  all    my   visions   of 

light, 

And  teaches  my  conscience  its  office  aright : 
Not   alone   in   the  world !    not  alone ! 

Not   alone  !    never,   never  alone ! 
He  sees  all  my  weakness  with  pitying  eyes, 
He   helps  me  to  lift   my  faint  heart  to  the 

skies, 
And  in  my  last  passion  he  suffers  and  dies  : 

Not   alone !    never,   never  alone  ! 


ALBERT  DURERS   STUDIO. 

IN  the   house   of  Albert  Durer 

Still   is   seen   the   studio 
Where   the   pretty   Nurembergers 

(Cheeks  of  rose  and  necks  of  snow) 
Sat   to   have   their  portraits  painted, 

Thrice   a  hundred   years  ago. 


Still    is    seen    the   little   loop-hole 
Where   Frau    Durer's  jealous  care 

Watched    the   artist   at   his   labor, 
And   the   sitter   in   her   chair, 

To   observe    each   word   and  motion 
That   should   pass   between  the  pair. 

Handsome,   hapless   Albert   Durer 
Was   as   circumspect   and   true 


ALBERT  DURER' S  STUDIO. 

As   the   most   correct    of  husbands, 
When   the   dear   delightful   shrew 

Has  him,   and   his   sweet     companions, 
Every   moment    under   view. 


But   I    trow   that   Albert   Durer 
Had   within   his   heart   a   spot 
Where   he   sat,   and   painted   pictures 
That   gave   beauty  to   his   lot, 
And   the   sharp,    intrusive   vision 
Of  Frau   Durer   entered   not. 


Ah  !    if  brains  and  hearts  had  loop-holes, 
And    Frau    Durer   could   have   seen 

All   the   pictures   that   his   fancy 
Hung   upon   their  walls   within, 

How   minute   had   been    her  watching, 
And  how  good  he  would  have  been! 


THE   OLD  CLOCK  OF  PRAGUE. 

THERE'S    a    curious    clock    in    the   city   of 

Prague — • 

A   remarkable   old   astronomical   clock — • 
With   a   dial   whose   outline   is   that   of    an 

egg, 

And   with   figures   and   fingers  a  wonder 
ful   stock. 


It   announces   the   dawn   and  the   death  of 

the   day, 
Shows    the    phases    of    moons    and    the 

changes   of  tides, 
Counts   the  months  and  the   years  as  they 

vanish   away, 

And    performs    quite   a   number  of    mar 
vels  besides. 


7 8  THE   OLD  CLOCK  OF  PRAGUE." 

At   the  left   of  the  dial  a  skeleton  stands ; 
And    aloft   hangs   a   musical    bell   in    the 

tower, 
Which   he  rings,  by   a   rope   that  he   holds 

in   his   hands, 

In   his   punctual   function   of  striking  the 
hour. 

And   the  skeleton  nods,  as   he   tugs  at  the 

rope, 
At    an   odd    little    figure   that   eyes    him 

aghast, 
As  a   hint  that  the  bell  rings  the  knell  of 

his   hope, 

And  the  hour  that   is  solemnly  tolled  is 
his   last. 


And  the  effigy  turns  its  queer  features  away 
(Much  as  if  for  a  snickering  fit  or  a  sneeze), 
With   a   shrug  and   a   shudder,  that   strug 
gle   to   say : 


THE  OLD   CLpCK  OF  PRAGUE.  79 

"  Pray  excuse  me,  but — just  an  hour  more, 
if  you  please  ! " 


But   the    funniest    sight,   of    the   numerous 

sights 

Which  the  clock  has  to  show  to  the  peo 
ple   below, 

Is   the   Holy  Apostles  in  tunics  and  tights, 
Who   revolve   in  a   ring,  or  proceed  in  a 
row. 


Their    appearance    can    hardly    be   counted 

sublime  ; 
And  their  movements  are  formal,  it  must 

be   allowed ; 
But  they're  prompt,  for  they  always  appear 

upon   time, 

And  polite,  for  they  bow  very  low  to  the 
crowd. 


8o  THE  OLD   CLOCK  OF  PRAGUE. 

This   machine   (so   reliable   papers     record) 
Was   the   work,   from   his   own   very   clever 

design 
Of    one    Hanusch,   who    died    in   the    year 

of  our   Lord 
One   thousand   four   hundred   and   ninety 

and   nine. 


Did  the  people  receive  it  with  honor?  you 

ask ; 
Did    it   bring   a   reward   to   the    builder  ? 

Ah,   well! 
It   was   proper   that   they  should  have  paid 

for   the   task! 

And   they   did,   in   a  way   that   it  shocks 
me  to   tell. 

For  suspecting   that    Hanusch   might  grow 

to   be   vain, 

Or   that   cities   around  them  might  covet 
their   prize, 


THE   OLD  CLOCK  OF  PRAGUE.  gj 

They  invented  a  story  that  he  was  insane, 
And,    to    stop    him    from    labor,     extin 
guished  his  eyes ! 


But   the   cunning   old   artist,   though    dying 

in   shame, 
May   be   sure    that   he   labored   and  lived 

not   amiss ; 
For  his  clock  has  outlasted  the   foes  of  his 

fame, 

And    the   world    owes    him   much    for   a 
lesson   like   this : 


That   a   private   success  is  a  public  offence, 

That  a  citizen's  fame   is  a  city's  disgrace, 

And    that   both    should   be    shunned    by   a 

person   of  sense, 

Who  would    live   with   a   whole    pair    of 
eyes  in  his  face. 


A    CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 

THERE'S  a  song  in  the  air! 
There's   a   star  in   the   sky  ! 
There's   a   mother's   deep   prayer 
And   a   baby's   low   cry ! 
And   the  star  rains  its  fire  while  the  Beau 
tiful  sing, 

For    the    manger   of    Bethlehem    cradles   a 
king. 


There's   a   tumult   of  joy 
O'er   the   wonderful   birth, 
For   the   virgin's   sweet   boy 
Is   the   Lord   of  the   earth, 
Ay !   the  star   rains  its   fire   and  the    Beau 
tiful  sing, 

For    the    manger    of    Bethlehem    cradles   a 
king ! 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL.  83 

In   the   light   of  that   star 
Lie   the   ages    impearled  ; 
And   that    song   from   afar 
Has   swept   over   the   world. 
Every   hearth   is   aflame,  and  the  Beautiful 

sing 

In   the    homes   of    the   nations    that   Jesus 
is   King. 


We   rejoice   in   the   light, 
And   we   echo   the   song 
That   comes   down    through   the   night 
From   the   heavenly   throng. 
Ay!   we   shout    to   the  lovely  evangel  they 

bring, 

And   we    greet   in   his    cradle   our    Saviour 
and    King ! 


VERSES   READ    AT    THE    HADLEY 
CENTENNIAL. 

(JUNE  9,  i859vJ 

H-EART  of'  Hadley,  slowly  beating 
Under  midnight's  azure  breast, 

Silence  thy  strong  pulse  repeating 

Wakes  me — shakes  me — from  my  rest.* 

Hark !    a   beggar   at   the   basement ! 

Listen !    friends   are   at   the   door ! 
There's   a   lover   at   the   casement ! 

There   are   feet    upon   the   floor! 

But   they   knock  with   muffled   hammers, 
They   step   softly  like   the   rain, 

\nd   repeat   their   gentle   clamors 
Till   I   sleep   and   dream   again. 

*  The  pulsations  of  Hadley  Falls,  on  the  Connecticut, 
are  felt  for  many  miles  around,  in  favorable  conditions  of 
the  atmosphere. 


THE  HADLEY  CENTENNIAL.  85 

Still   the   knocking   at   the   basement; 

Still   the    rapping   at   the   door; 
Tireless   lover   at   the   casement; 

Ceaseless   feet   upon   the   floor. 


Bolts   are   loosed   by   spectral    fingers, 
Windows   open   through   the    gloom, 

And   the   lilacs   and   syringas 

Breathe  their  perfume  through  the  room. 


'Mid   the   odorous   pulsations 
Of  the   air   around    my   bed, 

Throng   the   ghostly   generations 
Of  the   long   forgotten   dead. 


"  Rise   and  write  ! "    with   gentle   pleading 
They   command   and   I    obey ; 

And   I   give   to   you   the   reading 
Of  their  tender  words   to-day. 


86  THE  HADLEY  CENTENNIAL. 

"  Children   of  the   old   plantation, 
Heirs   of  all   we   won   and   held, 

Greet   us   in   your   celebration — 
Us — the   nameless   ones  of  Eld  ! 


"  We   were   never   squires   or  teachers, 
We  were   neither   wise   nor  great, 

But   we   listened   to   our   preachers, 

Worshipped   God  and   loved   the   State. 


"  Blood   of  ours   is   on   the   meadow, 
Dust   of  ours   is   in   the   soil, 

But   no   marble  casts   a   shadow 
Where   we   slumber   from   our   toil. 


"  Unremembered,   unrecorded, 
We   are   sleeping   side   by   side, 

And   to   names   is   now   awarded 
That   for  which   the   nameless  died. 


THE  HADLE  Y  CENTENNIAL.  8/ 

"  We   were   men   of  humble   station ; 

We   were  women   pure   and   true ; 
And   we   served   our   generation, — 

Lived   and  worked   and   fought   for  you. 


"  We   were   maidens,   we   were  lovers, 
We   were   husbands,   we   were   wives ; 

But   oblivion's   mantle   covers 
All   the   sweetness  of  our  lives." 


"  Praise   the   men  who   ruled   and   led   us ; 

Carry   garlands   to   their  graves ; 
But   remember  that   your   meadows 

Were   not   planted   by  their   slaves. 


"Children   of  the   old   plantation, 
Heirs   of  all   we  won   and   held, 

Greet    us   in   your  celebration, — 
Us,   the   nameless   ones   of  Eld." 


88  THE  HADLEY  CENTENNIAL. 

This  their  message,  and  I  send  it, 
Faithful  to  their  sweet  behest, 

And  my  toast  shall  e'en  attend  it, 
To  be  read  among  the  rest. 


Fill  to   all   the   brave   and   blameless 
Who,    forgotten,   passed   away! 

Drink   the   memory   of  the   nameless,- 
Only  named   in  heaven   to-day ! 


WANTED. 

GOD   give   us   men !     A  time  like   this   de 
mands 
Strong  minds,  great  hearts,  true   faith,  and 

ready   hands ; 

Men  whom  the  lust  of  office  does  not  kill  ; 
Men  whom  the  spoils  of  office  cannot  buy ; 
Men   who   possess   opinions   and    a   will ; 
Men  who  have  honor, — men  who  will  not 

lie; 

Men   who   can   stand   before   a   demagogue, 
And  damn  his  treacherous  flatteries  with 
out   winking  ! 
Tall  men,  sun-crowned,  who  live  above  the 

fog 

In   public  duty,  and    in  private  thinking: 
For  while    the    rabble,   with    their    thumb- 
worn   creeds, 


90  WANTED. 

Their    large     professions    and     their     little 

deeds, — 

Mingle  in  selfish  strife,  lo  !    Freedom  weeps, 
Wrong   rules   the   land,  and  waiting  Justice 

sleeps ! 


MERLE    THE    COUNSELLOR. 

OLD   MERLE,   the  counsellor  and  guide, 
And  tall   young   Rolfe  walked   side  by  side 
At   the   sweet   hour   of  eventide. 


The  yellow  light  of  parting  day 
Upon  the  peaceful  landscape  lay, 
And  touched  the  mountain  far  away. 


The  tinkling  of  the  distant  herds, 
And  the  low  twitter  of  the  birds 
Mingled  with  childhood's  happy  words. 

The    old   man   raised  his   trembling  palm, 
And   bared   his   brow   to   meet  the   balm 
That   fell   with   twilight's   dewy   calm ; 


g2  MERLE  THE  COUNSELLOR. 

And   one   could   see   that   to   his   thought, 
The  scenes  and  sounds  around  him  brought 
Suggestions   of  the   heaven   he   sought. 


But   Rolfe,   his  young   companion,   bent 
His   moody   brow   in   discontent, 
And    sadly  murmured   as   he   went. 


For  vagrant   passions,    fierce   and   grim, 
And   fearful   memories   haunted   him, 
That   made   the   evening   glory   dim. 


Then  spoke  the  cheerful  voice  of  Merle: 
"  Where  yonder  clouds  their  gold  unfurl, 
One  almost  sees  the  gates  of  pearl. 


"  Nay,   one   can   hardly  look  amiss 
For  heaven,  -in   such   a   scene   as   this, 
Or   fail   to   feel   its   present   bliss. 


MERLE  THE  COUNSELLOR.  93 

"  So   near   we   stand    to   holy   things, 

And    all    our   high    imaginings, 

That   faith    forgets   to   lift   her   wings !" 


Then    answered    Rolfe,    with   bitter   tone: 
u  If  thou    hast   visions   of  the   throne, 
Enjoy   them ;    they   are   all   thy   own. 


"  For   me    there   lives   no    God    of  love ; 
For   me   there   bends   no   heaven    above ; 
And    Peace,    the   gently   brooding   dove, 


"  Has   flown   afar,    and   in   her   stead 
Fierce   vultures   wheel   above   my   head, 
And   hope    is   sick   and   faith   is   dead. 

"  Death    can   but   loose   a   loathsome   bond, 
And    from    the    depths    of  my   despond, 
I    see    no   ray   of  light   beyond." 


94  MERLE  THE  COUNSELLOR. 

It   was    a   sad,    discordant    strain, 

That   brought   old    Merle   to   earth   again, 

And    filled   his   soul   with   solemn   pain. 


At  length  they  reached  a  leafy  wood, 
And  walked  in  silence,  till  they  stood 
Within  the  fragrant  solitude. 


Then  spake   old  Merle   with   gentle-  art : 
"  I   know   the   secret   of  thy   heart, 
And   will,   if  thou    desire,    impart." 


Rolfe   answered   with   a   hopeless  sigh, 

But   from  the   tear   that   brimmed   his   eye, 

The   old   man   gladly   caught   reply, 


And   spoke :    "  Beyond   these   forest   trees 
A   city   stands ;    and    sparkling   seas 
Waft   up    to    it   the   evening   breeze. 


MERLE  THE  COUNSELLOR.  95 

"  Thou    canst   not    see   its   gilded    domes, 
Its   plume   of  smoke,   its   pleasant   homes, 
Or   catch   the   gleam  of  surf  that   foams 

"  And    dies   upon   its   verdant    shore, 

But   there   it   stands ;    and   there   the  roar . 

Of  life   shall   swell   for   evermore ! 


"  The   path   we   walk   is   fair   and   wide, 
But    still   our   vision    is   denied 
The    city   and    its   nursing   tide. 

"  The    path   we   walk   is   wide   and   fair, 
But   curves   and   wanders   here   and   there, 
And   builds   the   wall   of  our   despair. 

"  Make   straight    the   path,   and   then    shall 

shine 

Through    trembling  walls   of  tree   and  vine 
The   vision  fair  for  which  we  pine. 


g6  MERLE  THE  COUNSELLOR. 

"  And  thou,  my  son,  so  long   hast  been 

Along  the  crooked  ways  of  sin, 

That  they  have  closed,  and  shut  thee  in. 


"  Make  straight  the  path  before  thy  feet, 
And  walk  within  it  firm    and  fleet, 
And  thou  shalt  see,  in  vision  sweet 


"And  constant  as  the  love  supreme, 
With  closer  gaze  and  brighter  beam, 
The  peaceful  heaven  that  fills  my  dream." 


He  paused :    no  more  his  lips  could  say ; 
And  then,  beneath  the  twilight  gray, 
The  silent  pair  retraced  their  way. 


But  in  the  young  man's  eyes  a  light 
Shone  strong  and  resolute  and  bright, 
For  which  Merle  thanked  his  God  that  night. 


DANIEL    GRAY. 

IF  I  shall  ever  win  the  home  in  heaven 
For  whose  sweet  rest  I  humbly  hope  and  pray, 
In  the  great  company  of  the  forgiven 
I  shall  be  sure  to  find  old  Daniel  Gray. 

I   knew   him  well ;    in  truth,  few   knew  him 

better ; 
For   my  young   eyes   oft    read    for   him  the 

Word, 

And  saw  how  meekly  from  the  crystal  letter 
He  drank  the  life  of  his  beloved  Lord. 

Old  Daniel  Gray  was  not  a  man  who  lifted 
On  ready  words  his  freight  of  gratitude, 
Nor  was  he  called  among  the  gifted, 

In  the  prayer-meetings  of  his  neighborhood. 
7 


98  DANIEL   GRAY. 

He    had    a    few    old-fashioned    words     and 

phrases, 
Linked    in    with   sacred   texts   and   Sunday 

rhymes; 

And  I  suppose  that  in  his  prayers  and  graces, 
I've  heard  them  all  at  least  a  thousand  times. 


I  see  him  now — his  form,  his  face,  his  mo 
tions, 

His  homespun  habit,  and  his  silver  hair, — 
And  hear  the  language  of  his  trite  devotions, 
Rising   behind    the  straight-backed    kitchen 
chair. 


I  can  remember  how  the  sentence  sounded — 
"  Help    us,    O    Lord,   to    pray   and   not   to 

faint!" 
And  how  the  "  conquering-and-to  conquer  " 

rounded 
The  loftier  aspirations  of  the  saint. 


DANIEL  GRAY.  99 

He   had  some  notions  that  did  not  improve 

him, 
He     never     kissed     his     children — so    they 

say; 
And  finest  scenes  and  fairest  flowers  would 

move  him 
Less   than   a   horse-shoe    picked   up   in  the 

way. 


He  had  a  hearty  hatred  of  oppression, 
And  righteous  words  for  sin  of  every  kind  ; 
Alas,  that    the    transgressor  and    transgres 
sion 
Were  linked  so  closely  in  his  honest  mind  ! 


He  could  see  nought  but  vanity  in  beauty, 
And  naught  but  weakness  in  a  fond  caress, 
And  pitied  men  whose  views  of  Christian 

duty 
Allowed  indulgence  in  such  foolishness. 


JOO  DANIEL  GRA  Y. 

Yet  there  were    love  and   tenderness  within 

him  ; 
And    I    am    told    that    when    his    Charley 

died, 
Nor   nature's  need   nor   gentle  words   could 

win  him 
From  his  fond  vigils  at  the  sleeper's  side. 

And  when  they  came  to  bury  little  Charlie, 
They  found  fresh  dew-drops  sprinkled  in  his 

hair, 
And    on    his    breast    a    rose-bud    gathered 

early, 
And  guessed,  but  did  not  know  who  placed 

it  there. 


Honest  and  faithful,  constant  in  his  calling, 
Strictly  attendant  on  the  means  of  grace, 
Instant    in  prayer,  and  fearful  most   of  fall 
ing, 
Old  Daniel  Gray  was  always  in  his  place. 


DANIEL  GRAY.  IQI 

A  practical  old  man,  and  yet  a  dreamer, 

He  thought  that  in  some  strange,  unlooked- 
for  way 

His  mighty  Friend  in  Heaven,  the  great 
Redeemer, 

Would  honor  him  with  wealth  some  golden 
day. 

This  dream  he  carried  in  a  hopeful  spirit 
Until   in  death  his  patient  eye  grew  dim, 
And  his  Redeemer  called  him  to  inherit 
The  heaven  of  wealth  long  garnered  up  for 
him. 


So,  if  I  ever  win  the  home  in  heaven 
For  whose  sweet  rest   I  humbly  hope  and 

pray, 

In  the  great  company  of  the  forgiven 
I  shall  be  sure  to  find  old  Daniel  Gray. 


THE    MOUNTAIN   CHRISTENING. 

(A   Legend  of   The   Connecticut.} 

How  did  they  manage  to  busy  themselves — 
Our  sires,  in  the  early  plantation  days  ? 

Grinding     their    axes    and    whittling     their 

helves? 
Fishing  for  salmon   and   planting   maize  ? 


How  when  the  chopping  and  splitting  were 

done  ? 
How  when  the  corn-fields  were  planted  and 

hoed? 

How  when  the  salmon  had  ceased  to  run, 
And  the  bushes  were  cleared  from  the  old 
Bay  Road? 


THE  MOUNTAIN  CHRISTENING.       103 

They  were  not  men  who  stood  still  in  their 

shoes, 
Or  who  clung  to  their  cabins  when  forests 

were  damp  ; 
So,  when  labor  was   finished,  they  cut  the 

blues 

And    their   sticks    for    a  lively   exploring 
tramp. 

'Twas   a  beautiful    morning   in    June,   they 

say- 
Two   hundred  and  twenty  years  ago, 
When   armed   and    equipped    for  a  holiday, 
They    stood   where    Connecticut's   waters 
flow, 

With    five    upon   this    side    and   five   upon 

that,— 

Agawam's   bravest   and   hardiest   men, 
Hailing   each    other   with   lusty   chat, 
That   the   tall   woods   caught   and   tossed 
over  again. 


104       THE  MOUNTAIN  CHRISTENING. 

Holyoke,  the  gentle  and  daring,  stood 
On  the  Eastern  bank  with  his  trusty  four, 

And  Rowland  Thomas,  the  gallant  and  good, 
Headed  the  band  on  the  other  shore. 


"Due    North!"     shouted    Holyoke   and   all 

his   men. 
"  Due    North ! "     answered    they   on   the 

opposite   beach  ; 

And  northward  they  started,  the  sturdy  ten, 
With  their  haversacks  filled  and  a  musket 
each. 


The  women  ran  panting  to  bid  them  good 
bye 
And   sweet    Mary   Pynchon   was   there   (I 

guess), 
With   a  sigh   in    her   throat   and   a  tear  in 

her  eye 
As  Holyoke  marched  into  the  wilderness, 


THE  MOUNTAIN  CHRISTENING.       105 

And   the    boys   were    all   wondering    where 

they   would   go, 

And   what   they   would   meet  in  the  dan 
gerous   way  ; 
And  the  good  wives  were  gossiping  to  and 

fro, 

And   prating  and  shaking  their  heads  all 
day 

Up  the  bright  river  they  travelled  abreast, 
Calling  each  other  from  bank  to  bank, 

Till  the  hot  sun  slowly  rolled  into  the  West, 
And  gilded  the  mountain-tops  where  it  sank. 

They  lighted  their  camp-fires  and  ate  of  their 

fare, 
And  drank  of  the  water  that  ran  at  their 

feet, 
And  wrapped  in  the  balm  of  the  cool  evening 

air,' 

Sank  down  to  a  sleep  that  was  dreamless 
and  sweet. 


106       THE  MOUNTAIN  CHRISTENING. 

The  great  falls  roared  in  their  ears  all  night, 
And  the  sturgeon  splashed  and  the  wild 
cat  screamed, 
But    they   did    not   wake   till   the   morning 

light 
Red  through  the  willowy  branches  beamed. 


Brief  was  the  toilet  and  short  the  grace, 
And   strong  were   the  viands   that   broke 

their  fast ; 
Then  onward  they  pressed  till  they  reached 

the  place 

Where  the  river  between   two  mountains 
passed. 


Up  the  rough  ledges  they  clambered  amain, 
Holyoke  and  Thomas  on  either  hand, 

Till   high  in   mid-passage   they  paused,  and 

then 
They  tearfully  gazed  on  a  lovely  land. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  CHRISTENING.       107 

Down   by   the    Ox-Bow's  southerly  shore 

Licking  the  wave  bowed  an  antlered  buck  ; 
And  Northward  and  Westward  a  league  or 

more 

Stretched   the   broad   meadows   of  Nono- 
tuck. 

Straight  up  the  river  an  Indian  town 
Filled  the  soft  air  with  its  musical  hum, 

And   children's  voices  were  wafted  down 
From  the  peaceful  shadows  of  Hockanum. 

Rude  little  patches   of  greening  maize 
Dappled  the  landscape   far  and  wide, 

And  away  in  the  North  in  the  sunset's  blaze, 
Sugar-loaf  stood  and  was  glorified  ! 

The  morning  dawned  on  the  double  group 
Facing  each  other  on   opposite  shores, 

Where  ages  ago  with  a  mighty  swoop 
The  waters  parted  the  mountain  doors. 


108        THE  MOUNTAIN  CHRISTENING. 

"  Let  us  christen  the  mountains,"  said  Holy- 

oke  in  glee  ; 
"  Let    us    christen    the    mountains,"   said 

Thomas  again  ; 
61  That  mountain  for  you,  and  this  mountain 

for  me ! " 

And     their     trusty     fellows     responded : 
"Amen!" 


Then    Holyoke    buried    his     palm     in    the 

stream, 
And   tossed   the   pure   spray   toward    the 

mountain's  brow, 
And  said,  while  it  shone  in  the  sun's  first 

beam, 

"  Fair  mountain,  thou  art  Mount  Holyoke 
now!" 


The  sun  shone  full  on  the  Western  height, 
When  Thomas  came  up  from  the  crystal 
tide: 


THE  MOUNTAIN  CHRISTENING. 

"  I  name  thee  Thomas  by  Christian  rite !" 
"Thou    art    Mount   Thomas!"    'they   all 
replied. 


They  paused  but  a  moment  when  rounding 
a  bluff 

Shot  an  Indian's  boat  with  its  stealthy  oar, 
And  with  strings  of  wampum  and  gaudy  stuff 

They  beckoned  it  in  to  the  Western  shore. 


Gracious  and  brief  was  the   bargain  made 
By  the  white  man's  potent  pantomime  ; 

And  the  delicate  boat  with  its  dainty  blade 
Bore   them   over  the   river  one   man  at  a 
time. 


There   were    greetings    and    jests    in    every 

mouth, 

And  hearty  farewells  to  "Holyoke"  and 
"Tom": 


HO       THE  MOUNTAIN  CHRISTENING. 

Then  the  gleeful  men  turned  their  steps  due 

South, 
And  took  a  bee-line  for  Agawam. 


They  passed  Willimansett  at  noon  that  day, 
And  Chicopee  just  as  the  sun  went  down, 

And  when  the  last  daylight  had  faded  away, 
All  hungry  and  weary  they  entered  the 
town. 

Mr.  Pynchon  demanded  a  full  report, 
Which   Holyoke  wrote  for  the  two  com 
mands  ; 
And  when   he   went   down   to   the   General 

Court 

He    placed    it    in    Governor    Winthrop's 
hands. 


A    GOLDEN    WEDDING-SONG. 

THE  links  of  fifty  golden  years 

Reach  to  the  golden  ring 
Which    now,  with   glad   and    grateful   tears, 

We   celebrate   and    sing. 
O    chain   of  love !    O    ring   of  gold  ! 

That   have   the   years   defied ; 
And   still   in   happy   bondage   hold 

The   old   man    and  his   bride ! 


The  locks  are  white   that  once  were  black ; 

The    sight    is   feebler   grown ; 
But  through  the  long  and  weary  track 

The   heart   has   held    its   own-! 
O    chain   of  love !    O   ring   of  gold  ! 

That   time   could    not    divide ; 
That   kept   through    changes   manifold 

The   old   man   with   his   bride ! 


H2  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING-SONG. 

The   little   ones   have   come   and   gone; 

The   old   have   passed   away ; 
But   love — immortal   love — lives   on, 

And   blossoms   'mid   decay. 
O    chain   of  love  !    O  ring   of  gold ! 

That   have    the   years   defied ; 
And   still   with   growing   strength    infold 

The   old   man   and   his   bride ! 


The   golden   bridal !    ah,   how   sweet 

The   music    of  its   bell, 
To   those  whose   hearts    the    vows    repeat 

Their   lives   have   kept    so   well ! 
O    chain    of  love !    O    ring   of  gold ! 

O    marriage   true    and   tried ! 
That   bind   with   tenderness    untold 

The  old  man   to   his   bride! 


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THE  CONSCRIPT:   A  Tale  of  the  French  War  oj 

1813.  With  four  full-page  Illustrations.  One  vol.  I2mo.  Price,  in 
paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

From  the  Cincinnati  Daily  Commercial. 

'*  It  Is  hardly  fiction, — it  is  history  in  the  guise  of  fiction,  and  that  part  of  history  which 
historians  hardly  write,  concerning  the  disaster,  the  ruin,  the  sickness,  the  poverty,  and  the 
utter  misery  and  suffering  which  war  brings  upon  the  people." 

WATERLOO:  A  Story  of  the  Hundred  Days.  Being  a 

Sequel  to  "  The  Conscript."  With  four  full-page  Illustrations.  One 
vol.  i2mo.  Price,  in  paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

From  the  New  York  Daily  Herald, 

"  Written  in  that  charming  style  of  simplicity  which  has  made  the  ERCKMANN- 
CHATRIAN  works  popular  in  every  language  in  which  they  have  been  published." 

THE  BLOCKADE  OF  PHALSBURG.   An  Episode  of  the  Fail 

of  the  First  French  Empire.  With  four  full-page  Illustrations  and  a 
Portrait  of  the  authors.  One  vol.  I2mo.  Price,  in  paper,  75  cents; 
cloth,  $1.25. 

From  the  Philadelphia  Daily  Inquirer. 

"Not  only  are  they  interesting  historically,  but  intrinsically  a  pleasant,  well-constructed 
plot,  serving  in  each  case  to  connect  the  great  events  which  they  so  graphically  treat,  and 
the  style  being  as  vigorous  and  charming  as  it  is  pure  and  refreshing." 

INVASION  OF  FRANCE  IN  1814.   with  the  Night  March 

past  Phalsburg.  With  a  Memoir  of  the  Authors.  With  four  full-page 
Illustrations.  One  vol.  I2mo.  Price,  in  paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

From  th<  New  York  Evening  Mail. 

"  All  their  novels  are  noted  for  the  same  admirable  qualities, — simple  and  effective  realism 
of  plot,  incident,  and  language,  and  a  disclosure  of  the  horrid  individual  aspects  of  war. 
They  are  absolutely  perfect  of  their  kind." 

MADAME  THERESE;  or,  The  Volunteers  '92.   with 

four  full-page  Illustrations.  One  vol.  I2mo.  Price,  in  paper,  75  cents; 
cloth,  $1.25. 

From  the  Boston  Commonwealth. 

"  It  is  a  boy's  story — that  is,  supposed  to  be  written  by  a  boy — and  has  all  the  freshness, 
«ho  unconscious  simplicity  and  naivete  which  the  imagined  authorship  should  imply ;  while 
nothing  more  graphic,  more  clearly  and  vividly  pictorial,  has  been  brought  before  the.  public 
for  many  a  day." 

Any  or  all  oj  the  above  volumes  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of  the  prift  by  tfu 
Publishers, 

SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG  &  CO., 

(Successors  to  CHARLES  SCRIBNER  &  Co.), 

654   Broadway,  New  For*. 


A  NEWSERIES  OF 

Hduslrafab  Hiftrarg  of  Wonbprs, 

ENLARGED   IN    SIZE,    IN    A    NEW   STYLE   OF   BINDING,    AND    EDITED 

BY   PROMINENT   AMERICAN   AUTHORS. 

The  extraordinary  success  of  the  ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY  OF  WONDERS  has  encouraged 
the  publishers  to  still  further  efforts  to  increase  the  attractions  and  value  of  these  admirable 
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the  size  of  the  volumes  is  increased,  the  style  of  binding  changed,  and  the  successive 
»olumes  are  edited  by  distinguished  American  authors  and  scientists. 
The  following  volumes  will  introduce 

THE  SECOND  SERIES  OF  THE 

ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY  OF  WONDERS. 


MOUNTAIN  ADVENTURES.  (39  Il 
lustrations.)  Edited  by  J.  T.  HEADLEY. 

WONDERS  OF  ELECTRICITY. 
Edited  by  Dr.  J.  \V.  ARMSTRONG,  Presi 
dent  of  the  State  Normal  School,  Fredonia, 
N.Y. 


WONDERS  OF  VEGETATION.  (Ovei 
40  Illustrations.)  Edited  by  Prof.  SCHELB 
DE  VERB. 

WONDERS  OF  WATER.  (64  Illus 
trations.)  Edited  by  Prof.  SCHELB  DH 
VERE.  In  November, 

WONDERS  OF  ENGRAVING.  (34 
Illustrations.1* 


THE  FIRST  SERIES  OF 


Xnusfrafrb  Xuftrarg  of 


WONDERS  OF  ART. 


Comprises  Twenty  Volumes,  containing  over  1,000  Beautiful  Illustrations. 
These  twenty  volumes  in  cloth,  or  in  half  roan,  gilt  top,  are  furnished  in  a  black  walnut  case 
for  $30.00  (the  case  gratis),  or  they  may  be  bought  singly  or  in  libraries,  classified  ac 
cording  to  their  subjects  as  below,  each  i  vol.  i2mo.     Price  per  vol.  $1.50. 

WONDERS  OF  NATURE. 

THE  HUMAN  BODY 
THE  SUBLIME  IN  NATURE 
INTELLIGENCE  OF  ANIMALS 
THUNDER  AND  LIGHTNING 
BOTTOM  OF  THE  SEA 
THE  HEAVENS      . 

6  Vols.  in  a  neat  box, 

WONDERS  OF  SCIENCE.        ADVENTURES  &  EXPLOITS. 


No.  Illus. 

No. 

Illus. 

-      43 

ITALIAN  ART 

23 

RE    .      44 

EUROPEAN  ART  . 

II 

(ALS      54 

ARCHITECTURE    . 

wO 

ING.      §9 

GLASS-MAKING    . 

63 

WONDERS  OF  POMPEII 

32 

!     '  .*      48 

EGYPT  3,300  YEARS  AGO 

40 

y- 

6  Vols.  in  a  neat  box,  $5 

. 

No.  Illus. 

THE  SUN.  By  Guillemin  .  .  58 
WONDERS  OF  HEAT  .  .  93 
OPTICAL  WONDERS  ...  71 
WONDERS  OF  ACOUSTICS  .  no 
4  Vols.  In  a  neat  box,  $6. 


No.  Illu*. 

WONDERFUL  ESCAPES  .  .  26 
BODILY  STRENGTH  &  SKILL  70 
BALLOON  ASCENTS  ...  30 
GREAT  HUNTS  .  « 

4  Vols.  in  a  neat  box.  $6. 


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address,  post  or  express  charges-paid,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 

A  descriptive  Catalogue  of  the  Wonder  Library,  with  specimen  illustrations,  t*»i 
address  on  application. 

SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG  &  CO.,  654  Broadway,  N.  Y 


A  NEW  AND  VALUABLE  SERIES 
For  Readers  of  all  Ages  and  for  the  School  and  Family  Library, 

Iflusfrafob 


TRAVEL,    EXPLORATION, 

AND  ADVENTURE. 

EDITED  BY 

BAYARD    TAYLOR. 

The  extraordinary  popularity  of  the  ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY  OF  WONDERS  (nearly  mu 
»nd  a  half  Million  copies  having  been  sold  in  this  country  and  in  France)  is  considered  by 
the  publishers  a  sufficient  guarantee  of  the  success  of  an  ILLUSTRATED  LIBRARY  OF  TRAVEL. 
•EXPLORATION,  AND  ADVENTURE,  embracing  the  same  decidedly  interesting  and  permanently 
valuable  features.  Upon  this  new  enterprise  the  Publishers  will  bring  to  bear  all 
their  wide  and  constantly  increasing  resources.  Neither  pains  nor  expense  will  be 
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illustrated  works  of  the  day,  but  at  the  same  tkne  one  of  the  most  graphic  and  fas 
cinating  in  narrative  and  description. 

Each  volume  will  be  complete  in  itself,  and  will  contain,  first,  a  brief  preliminary  sketch 
of  the  country  to  which  it  is  devoted  ;  next,  such  an  outline  of  previous  explorations  as  may 
be  necessary  to  explain  what  has  been  achieved  by  later  ones  ;  and  finally,  a  condensation 
of  one  or  more  of  the  most  important  narratives  of  recent  travel,  accompanied  with  illustra 
tions  of  the  scenery,  architecture,  and  life  of  the  races,  drawn  only  from  the  most  authentic 
sources.  An  occasional  volume  will  also  be  introduced  in  the  LIBRARY,  detailing  the  exploits 
of  individual  adventurers.  The  entire  series  will  thus  furnish  a  clear,  picturesque,  and  prac 
tical  survey  of  our  present  knowledge  of  lands  and  races  as  supplied  by  the  accounts  of 
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to  young  as  well  as  old,  and  the  publishers  intend  to  make  it  a  necessity  in  every  family  ol 
oulture  and  in  every  private  and  public  library  in  America.  The  name  of  BAYARD  TAYLOR 
as  editor  is  an  assurance  of  the  accuracy  and  higl  literary  character  of  the  publication. 

The  following  volumes  are  now  ready  : 

JAPAN,  ARABIA, 

Wild  Men  and  Wild  Beasts. 


Will  be  Published  soon  : 

South  Africa,  Central  Africa, 

WONDERS  OF  THE  YELLOWSTONE. 

The  volumes  will  be  uniform  in  size  (i2mo),  and  in  Price,  $1.50  each. 
%3Hr~  Catalogues,  with  Specimen  Illustrations,  sent  on  application. 

SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG  &  CO.,  654  Broadway,  N.  Y. 


397146 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


